my mother standing in the kitchen,
at the counter,
sweat
on her brow,
flour on her nose,
her red apron on,
making cookies, Christmas was
only 75 days away.
she'd wipe her
glasses clean
on the curtain of the open
window.
we stood
and waited for one or two samples,
at the most.
still warm from
the oven,
before she froze the rest
in wrapped
batches, carefully
labeled and placed in the ice box.
she used every
spoon, every spatula,
and mixer, every bowl,
every long tray
she had in her arsenal.
nuts of all kinds.
brown
and white sugar. vanilla extract,
chocolate,
candied sprinkles.
all without
a recipe in sight.
so many cookies, so many
children.
none of it would last long.
No comments:
Post a Comment